


House of Need

by Domimagetrix



Series: Gentili e Sculacciati [2]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Adult Language, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Drugs, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Mobsters, Mutual Zaronadra, Some Physical Intimacy, Surgery and Wound Care, Tobacco use, Wahi has Had It With Everyone's Shit in any universe, alcohol (mentioned), criminal activity, gun threat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 19:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12217818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domimagetrix/pseuds/Domimagetrix
Summary: Set after the 1940s AU-version of The Betrayal (you know the one.) Nex and Azzanadra are taking The Boss (you know the one) to Azzy's place after springing him from the Big House (hopefully you don't know the one.) Also: Mutual Zaronadra.This was fun to write and I regret nothing.





	House of Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tribunus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tribunus/gifts).



If there was one thing Nex was atrocious at, Azzanadra mused, it was subtlety.

Chrome on the front fenders and grille of the 1942 Ford Convertible reflected streetlamps and headlights in upscale San Tristen. True to the natures of both car and driver, the can sported a pristine cherry coat and every bell and whistle imaginable. The car wasn’t bent, but it hollered into the overcast evening like a canary in a lounge filled with suits, and she’d narrowly avoided four tickets this week for speeding.

_It’s a fucking miracle we haven’t been made. Tell her we need to dust a joint on the sneak and she shows up in a goddamned Macy’s float._

For the fifth time since springing _Il Vuoto,_ Azzy patted his breast pocket for the deck that wasn’t there. He sighed and silently offered his soul to anyone and everyone for a coffin nail and a whiskey.

In a bar. Six towns over.

Crosby poured from the dash, Nex’s fingers snapping to the beat between pauses to shift gear. She sang along with the crooner, her voice too harsh and a few too many keys missed to make it even passing pleasant. In the backseat, visible in the rear view, _Il Vuoto_ looked ill.

“Nex, can you close your head before you shatter the fuckin’ windshield?” Azzanadra’s plea was met with a snarl and an extended middle finger. Nex’s brassy red hair bopped along in the wind in counterpoint to the music and a curl hooked around the finger.

It didn’t faze him. “You’re giving the boss a headache.”

She rolled her eyes and went blessedly silent, the hand now alternating between gear shift and the inside of her feathered purse. She withdrew a deck and Azzy’s eyes fastened to it, watching as she slid a cigarette between her lips and lit the end with a flip-top lighter. She inhaled and held the stick between the fingers of her steering wheel hand, the filter looking blood-painted with lipstick.

He reached for the box she’d dropped to shift gear, helping himself to one of the nails and lighting it. _Il Vuoto_ shook his head when Azzy offered the pack to him and he stuffed it back into Nex’s purse. Feathers tickled his hand as he pulled it back and he stared at the violet and red plumage on the bag, wondering how many tropical birds had been sacrificed on the altar of her fashion sense.

Nex wheeled the Ford into a parallel park in front of the bakery, the scent of cinnamon and hot confectioner’s sugar reaching them through the light evening drizzle. Nex quelled the engine and they rose from their seats to stand on the pavement, Azzanadra offering a supporting arm which _Il Vuoto_ accepted with the same quiet grace he seemed to employ in all things.

Each of them cast their gazes down either sidewalk and the road, scanning everything for signs of the law and sharing a collective sense of relief when no shouts or sirens greeted them. Nex preceded them inside, where the scent of pastries became powerful enough to tempt even Azzanadra.

They’d scarcely taken two steps inside when _Il Vuoto_  began sneezing. The smaller man’s body jerked with each soft _chah!_ Azzy gripped the boss’s arm and looked around, spying one of the front counter girls approaching the open display with a still-hot tray of cinnamon rolls in her mitten-encased hands.

Nex noticed, too, reaching into her hideous purse and withdrawing a tiny snub-nosed revolver before aiming it - and a sneer - at the baker. “Honey, you’d better make dust with that before Glacies here squirts metal and puts you on ice.”

Needing no further encouragement, the frightened woman retreated with her goods and the trio made their way to the rear of the establishment.

The little store had proven more successful than they’d anticipated for a front operation, Trin’s recipes a secret none had managed to weasel out of her. Even Slick hadn’t been able to convince her to divulge them, and nobody carried as much clout with her as the Trickster.

Beyond an unmarked door set between the two bathrooms, they made their careful way down simple wooden stairs lit only by a bare overhead bulb. Azzy silently thanked Nex for her insistence on fashion over practicality; her slow progress allowed _Il Vuoto_ to avoid upsetting the stitches over his injuries. At the foot of the stairs sat another door leading to Azzanadra’s own digs.

They reached the door, Azzy passing Nex the key as she spared the boss a worried glance. She wiggled the old brass into the lock and turned the knob, opening the door wide.

The Second’s place to call home was spartan given their various operations’ financial success. Uninteresting gray carpet lined the floor, and polished wooden furniture with worn velvet upholstery sat arranged to avoid clutter. The only real luxury he’d allowed himself was a pair of stained glass lamps, Tiffany in make depending how well you trusted a curio shop that managed a whole week of business before going under. Wood paneling lined the walls and several electric lamps in mock wall sconces threw soft gold light across the apartment.

Perching on one of the velvet chairs and shuffling another cigarette up to her lips, Nex pulled an ashtray closer and lit the fresh end before eyeing Azzy and the boss. “Get him on the bed, kiddo. Doc Nabor’s out making sure his creds are still in order after that box job of Trick’s, but I can get Wise-Tail on the horn.” She waved her painted nails at him and held the talker, dialing and blowing smoke rings toward the lamp. Her deep, smoky voice addressed someone on the line as they left her. “Hey, Nkuku-doll. Is Wise in?”

Azzy led the boss down the hall to his own room, toeing the door partway shut so _Il Vuoto_ wasn’t in Nex’s direct line of sight, and the smaller man slumped as he sat on the bed. He looked exhausted, the rich, dark skin not quite hiding the subtle sallow tinge beneath and his odd-colored eyes closed with pain. Black hair hung in a defeated curtain around his ears, and the deep purple shirt he wore moved with breathing a little too rapid to be explained by their slow descent down the stairs.

Azzy knelt before the boss, resting a careful hand on one of his superior’s. “Sawbones will be on the way soon. Rest, and we’ll have you tidied up in no time at all.”

 _Il Vuoto_ smiled wanly, free hand splayed over the bedspread as he turned, extending his legs and lowering himself to the pillow. He turned his head to look at Azzy. “Remain with me, Azzanadra?”

That was the boss for you, Azzy thought, smiling. Never “Azzy,” always “Azzanadra,” as though he found the diminutive form insulting and beneath one or both of them. He squeezed the hand in his and nodded. “Right here, boss.”

The smaller man seemed relieved. “Good. I wouldn’t object to a little sound while we wait.”

Standing and releasing the boss’s hand with reluctance, Azzy strode over to the corner of the room housing the radio and fiddled with the knobs until the fuzz cleared enough to make out some huckster’s voice waxing poetic about motor oil. He turned back to the boss, getting a slight nod for his efforts.

He returned to his previous spot and knelt again, reaching for _Il Vuoto’s_ hand and finding it. The huckster’s clipped, energetic pitch was replaced by a somewhat more soothing voice.

“I am the Whistler, and I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales, many secrets hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak.”

The reproduced sound of footsteps faded along with the familiar whistled theme, and the pair in the room listened as the story of some nefarious criminal came to a tragic end thanks to their own ineptitude. Footprints did the unfortunate woman in this time, and they shared a chuckle at the absurdity of it all before growing quiet again.

Footsteps of the less reproduced variety made their careful way down the hall, and the door was pushed open to reveal Wise-Tail, or _Wahisietel,_ that competent but insufferable scholar who seemed to regard their little _famiglia_ with a mixture of exasperation and resignation.

He was normally prone to an exchange of insults with Azzy anywhere else, but in the boss’s presence even Wise-Tail lost his surly standard in favor of a more subdued demeanor.

Wise-Tail removed his cream-colored fedora, setting it on the nightstand and unburdening his shoulder of a satchel before addressing the boss. “My apologies for not arriving sooner. The traffic-”

The boss lifted the hand so recently clasping Azzy’s and shook his head. “All is well, Wahisietel. You have my full confidence that you made no unnecessary delays in coming to me.”

Wise-Tail seemed relieved, setting his satchel on the floor next to Azzanadra and gesturing for the Second to move aside. As he did, Azzy noticed Wise-Tail looked a bit more haggard than usual, hair more visibly askew without the hat and his bowtie half-undone. His shoes were also scuffed, but that could be credited to a lack of interest on the retired Army medic’s part - he’d had little use for polished shoes since being discharged, and his footwear bore the telltale dullness of that disinterest even at formal occasions.

Azzy suppressed a snort. The gruff former medic had worn scuffed shoes to Char’s fourth wedding. It never ceased to astound the Second just how little Wise-Tail cared for doing things properly and with a sense of ceremony.

Ignoring Azzy’s pointed stare at his shoes, Wise-Tail knelt where the Second had been and withdrew a handful of bandages, a bottle of something brown and potent-looking, thread, needles, another bottle filled with something clear, and a stethoscope, resting all save the last on the nightstand next to his hat. Plugging his ears with the white buttons on either side and holding the little metal disc on the longer end face-down, he lifted the boss’s shirt and began giving instructions: breathe in, hold, out, deep breath, long exhale. He did this in several spots on _Il Vuoto’s_ midsection before dropping the absurd-looking contraption back into his bag.

He took the smaller man’s pulse, then began examining the stitches over the bullet wound with muttered complaints aimed at nobody in particular.

“Fucking insult to the Oath, that’s what these are. Angles are all wrong, and… what gowed-up simpleton tied this off?” Still muttering, he reached into his satchel and withdrew scissors, clipping the thread and dumping a goodish supply of the brown liquid from the bottle on the wound before applying neater, more careful stitching.

Dousing the works with a considerable amount of the clear liquid from the other bottle and applying bandages and tape from the satchel, he set everything back in the bag and withdrew a smaller bottle filled with large pills and rattled them at Azzanadra. “One of these every four to six hours.” Placing them on the nightstand, he withdrew another and rattled them in the Second’s face again. “These right after food. Three times a day at least, four if you can manage it. Don’t overdo it with either, and for fuck’s sake don’t _under-_ do it.” He popped the tops of both, withdrawing a pill from each before replacing the caps and handing them to the boss, who swallowed them with a slight grimace.

Pulling the drawstring on the bag and standing, Wise-Tail shouldered the bag and replaced the hat on his head, only partially hiding silver-streaked hair long overdue for a trim. He aimed a stern look at Azzy before looking the boss over and nodding his satisfaction. “Remember about the pills, please. I’m leaving bandages and iodine out there with Nex, and she can fetch you more if needed. Don’t let anyone pour that poison swill into the wound.”

He glared at Azzy again. “I’m serious. Iodine or water that’s been boiled first, that’s it. Sterile.” He pointed a gnarled finger accusingly. _“Don’t put fucking booze in there._ I’ll be the first to know if you do.” With another nod to the bedridden man, he turned and closed the door behind him.

Azzanadra listened to Wise-Tail’s footsteps retreat down the hall, and a few polite words were spoken to Nex before the door to his place opened and shut.

Gone. They were alone. Finally.

He could hear Nex chatting amiably into the phone. She wouldn’t hear, and he didn’t want to be heard speaking _Il Vuoto’s_ true name. He looked down at the strange man and the linchpin of their organization. “Zaros?”

The boss smiled again, looking marginally less pained, and gestured to the other side of the bed. “Rest with me, Azzanadra. I much prefer your company to solitude.”

Unbuttoning his burgundy shirt and discarding it, Azzy walked to the other side of the bed and joined Zaros, moving slowly so as not to shuffle the mattress. He positioned himself next to the smaller man, eyes glancing in concern at the stark white bandages covering the boss’s wound before meeting his eyes.

In the low lamplight, Zaros’s cool brown eyes caught a hint of the purple from the unbuttoned edges of his shirt, imbuing them with their own faint purple undertone. They watched Azzy’s cautious crawl to his side until he was settled next to the other man, making Azzy self-conscious. His slow care felt suggestive now.

Self-conscious or no, he wedged himself against Zaros and held up his hand, fingers curled, pensive.

That strange and inscrutable smile never fading, Zaros took the offered hand in his own, drawing it to his mouth and kissing the back of Azzy’s fingers. “Unparallelled loyalty, Azzanadra. Yours exceeds even Nex’s. Wahisietel’s. So much so that I’m left to wonder if loyalty is all there is to your commitment to this organization. To me.”

Azzy looked down at the hands, the observation too perceptive for both words and eye contact. “It isn’t. I-”

Zaros’s clear, low voice betrayed little, but the fingers that came to rest on Azzy’s lips were gentle. “You don’t have to say more. I suspected it and now I know. This is good enough.”

Azzanadra froze with _Il Vuoto’s_ fingers to his mouth.

_Do I? Do I dare?_

He did, the kiss running from the tips of Zaros’s digits down to his palm. The hand didn’t strike him, didn’t move, but the fingers spread.

His hand was open wide enough to allow Azzy to continue what he was doing. Pads, dips, and thin lines were mapped to the last intimate detail as those spread fingers closed softly to touch his cheek and chin, caressing and encouraging. Zaros’s own lips explored Azzy’s hand as slowly and thoroughly, and he felt a tongue slick along his palm and he moaned into the hand at his mouth.

The hand to which he’d been giving his attention moved, fingertips sliding along his jaw to his neck and stroking once, twice, then sliding into his hair. Zaros’s free hand pulled Azzanadra’s to his chest, and Azzy once again froze as the other man’s gaze met his.

He could feel it, the heartbeat the other prominent _famiglia's_ boss insisted couldn’t exist on account of Zaros having no heart. Steady, slow thump-pulsing that defied his confident assertions that _Il Vuoto_ was the less likely between them to possess such an organ.

_“No heart in that one,” he says. Fool. That fucker Zamorak pumped lead into him and here it beats right where I can feel it. Damn him and damn his entire lot. Scatter the damnings like birdseed. He has a heart and it beats._

Zaros’s blunt little nails drove paths in Azzy’s hair as he pulled his Second in for a kiss. Azzy didn’t fight it, worming carefully upward for a better reach and allowing the hand buried in his hair to bring him close enough.

It was soft, the first meeting of lips. Little more than a ghost of sensation before a tongue-tease parted Azzanadra’s, deepening the kiss. His eyes closed of their own accord and he drank in every sensation, every too-warm exhale along his cheek. Both their mouths opened and nearly closed in a drawn-out rhythm that begged too much of his self-control. Beneath his hand, the heartbeat that shouldn’t exist sped up.

_He’s wounded. Hurting._

The thought was enough for Azzy to pull back. “You don’t need to get your ticker going like this, Zaros. You’ve been shot, remember?”

The smile again, the one that meant everything to him despite being too mysterious and vague to mean anything at all. “Vividly. It isn’t something that escapes the attention.” Fingers tousled his hair and a wave of gooseflesh ran up Azzy’s arms. “Wahisietel’s pills appear to be making away with my focus. Perhaps these are signs enough for us to stop… for now.”

Both relieved and disappointed, Azzanadra reached above his head and pressed the little tab on the lamp inward, killing the light and shrouding both men in darkness.

 _For now._ Azzy smiled. “Just for now, huh?”

Zaros’s tone was as it always was, smooth and cultured with the faint trace of _other_ that rendered it too strange to convey much feeling, but there was warmth there despite those qualities. “For now. Wounds heal, but gratitude doesn’t fade. And I am grateful, Azzanadra. Very grateful for you.”

Not for his loyalty. For _him._ “I’m-”

Nex’s voice from behind the door interrupted him. “Hey, Azzhole! I’m supposed to remind you about pills in the morning? Wise-Tail mentioned them before he left.” She went on before he had a chance to respond. “Fine if I take the spare room? I’m knackered.”

Azzy sighed. “Fine, Nex, go on and do. And wipe that fuckin’ warpaint off before you go hittin’ the pillow!”

She muttered something unintelligible, the beat of her footsteps speaking to her high heels despite the carpet. Thin strips of light above and below the door disappeared as she turned off the lamps in the central room.

“Goofy broad.” Azzy shook his head. It was too dark to see, but the smooth sound of Zaros’s breathing was deeper and slower and he bit off the other choice phrases he’d prepared to lob at the retreating Nex.

 _For now._ The memory of the kiss still trailed up his spine, _Il Vuoto’s_ fingers still twined in his hair and now relaxed in sleep.

Azzy reached to the pillow and bunched it carefully, not wanting the position to be uncomfortable but unwilling to disengage the hand from his hair. Finally finding something that managed both, he trailed his fingers along Zaros’s chest and began to drift off.

_He knows. But is this all there is, his knowledge of how I feel? Does he, or can he…?_

_“You don’t have to say more. I suspected it and now I know. This is good enough.”_

Azzy found it hard to disagree. He knew. And it was good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> The fic itself contains the introduction to a popular radio program, "The Whistler," and several defining descriptors from the same. The title of the fic is a play on both an episode of that program, "House of Greed," as well as a 1940s-era gangster film by the same title.


End file.
